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Authors: Nancy Kelly

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She said, “I’m calling your landlord right now.”
 
 
My meeting with Brad wasn’t the trial I imagined. I never got the hang of calling him Brad
ley
, but I did check out his Santa Monica purchase and was a little surprised that it wasn’t as nice as mine, although it made up for it in square footage. I asked about his kids—just to be polite—and learned that Tremaine was a senior and would be graduating in the spring. The daughter (He called her Kate. I never would have remembered that) was about to get her driving permit, and the youngest boy was into snowboarding in a huge, huge way. As Brad prattled on, I wondered if CeeCee and her boy-toy would meet this
wunderkind
on the mountain, but I kept my thoughts to myself.
I asked Brad about his work and he started talking in theory. Memories swirled. I felt my energy level sink like a deflating balloon. My mind wandered. For some reason I remembered sex with Brad. What it had been like.
While he rambled, punctuating the air with a finger now and again to make a point, I thought about his nighttime calisthenics. Brad was the distracting sort. Always moving and grunting and generally turning lovemaking into a noisefest. Just when I was close to that elusive “feel-good,” the first hint that a dozing climax, the kind sleeping just out of reach, might be about to stretch and awaken, Brad would do something like blow in my ear and bite my earlobe. This sounded like the surf at Diamond Head and felt like a sand crab grabbing hold. Or, maybe he would squeeze a breast too hard, or shift position and
take away
the pressure from the only thing that was working: the penis. Sometimes, you just gotta wonder.
Hurried attempts on my part to put things right made the nearly waking climax slip into a huge yawn. This was followed by a loss of sensation, where all the parts of my body suddenly slipped into a nap. I wanted to cry out from frustration, but that would give Brad the wrong idea. Any sound during sex was a turn-on to him. If I wanted any hope of regaining what was lost I had to remain utterly silent and damn near immobile. Unfortunately passivity only increased Brad’s need to stir me up and I would be vigorously bounced, bitten, and rubbed.
Nothing worked.
Now, true, any one of these little tricks can be an enticement, something to jolt the sleeping climax to full alertness. But with Brad it never quite happened that way. He’d always do something that would send everything sideways. My own frustration would build and build and build until I wanted to explode—and not from sexual release. To this day, Brad is the only man I faked an orgasm with. Sometimes out of sheer necessity to get him to GET ON WITH IT ALREADY.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked suddenly.
We were seated at a little bar off Third Street Promenade. I’d scarcely touched my martini. I’d almost forgotten where I was.
“I was actually thinking about us,” I admitted.
He grinned. I didn’t have the heart to tell him the gist of my thoughts. “I was thinking about us, too.”
In a moment of pure reaction, I swept my hand over his and said, “No, Brad.”
We sat that way a moment. For once in his life Brad didn’t talk, he listened.
And he heard.
And that was the end of my evening with Brad.
 
 
I was still inwardly marveling about this moment of pure communication that had never happened before, with me and
anyone,
as I pulled up to the valet at Someplace Else the following night. I watched my Explorer disappear and forced myself not to worry about theft.
Drawing a breath, I crossed to the door. I’d dressed for success. A tight blue dress. Bare legs. Strappy black heels. A black jacket.
I actually got a whistle as I strode inside. Calves. My best asset. Cover up most of the thighs and the nonexistent boobs and I wasn’t half bad.
My confidence was definitely hitting the upper reaches. A little more whistling and I might hit the red zone.
Good. It was how I needed to feel to face both Jackson and Will.
My gaze fell on them the next moment. They were seated at CeeCee’s birthday booth. They were sitting fairly close to each other for two men in such a large space, which led me to believe someone out of my range of vision was seated across from them. Jackson was wearing a white shirt, open at the throat, exposing a vee of tanned skin. His sleeves were rolled up his forearms. There was something wonderfully masculine about him.
I had a moment of pure clarity:
I want him.
I managed to keep my tongue from hanging out as I approached their booth. I told myself I was feeling great. And why not? So I’d slept with Will? So he’d ended things first? So Jackson and I were in some kind of strange dance that would probably never be resolved? I’d seen Brad
ley
Knowles-It-All and had gotten the last word! That was worth celebrating in itself.
“Come here often?” I said to both of them, my smile wide. My gaze swept around to the other side of the booth.
Oh. God. Shit. No.
My jaw slackened. John Langdon sat there, grinning at me like an oaf. And beside him was a very young, very blonde girl, of the Nate’s Tara ilk, who blinked and smiled and gazed from one man to the other as if waiting for her cue.
“Well, hello,” I said, finding my voice. I tried to pretend it didn’t squeak like a mouse on helium.
One Ex-File and two near misses all at one table? There oughtta be a law.
“Could I get you something?” The approaching barmaid looked at me expectantly.
“Ketel One vodka martini. Lightning speed or sooner.”
Jackson was looking me over appreciatively. I tried hard to concentrate on that and feel good as he said, “John’s agreed to be in the film. He’s investing in it.”
“Jackson’s my financial manager,” said Lang. “He tried to talk me out of it. Said I should stick to more ‘sure things.’ I say bullshit to that.”
My breath, which had been caught in my throat, came out in a rush. I said, forcing a normality I didn’t feel, “You’re playing Boone?” Lang nodded and I added, “You’re perfect for it.”
“Thanks.” He was surprised, I could tell. I was, too, come to think of it. Sometimes manners take over to save the day.
Thank you, Lorraine Bluebell.
Will stated flatly, “Let’s all stop congratulating ourselves and really talk about this project. We don’t have a lot of time.”
Trust Will to be the wet blanket. What had I found attractive about him? For the life of me, I couldn’t remember.
The girl bubbled, “John said I might have a small part. I can’t wait! I’m so excited!”
Lang gave her a hug, as if he were trying to squeeze her lips closed. She gazed up at him adoringly. I excused myself for a moment. Time to catch my bearings. I was halfway to the ladies’ room when a hand touched my shoulder. I turned around, half-expecting and half-hoping it was Jackson.
I stared into Lang’s famous face.
“You’re the one that got away,” he said.
A feeling of joy swept over me. Then a vague memory. Jackson telling me at CeeCee’s party that Lang had said that about me. Another woman might have believed it to be true, but I knew Lang. I said dryly, “Bet you say that to all the girls.”
He grinned.
Bullseye, Ginny Blue.
“I love you,” he said.
“The feeling’s mutual,” I said. Not really. But Lang was basically harmless as long as you stayed detached.
Like you should do with Jackson
.
“We’re going to have a good time,” Lang predicted.
“I think you’re right,” I said, not sure if I believed it or not.
I left him and headed for the restroom. When I returned to the table, Jackson had made room for me. I sat down beside him and there was just enough space to perch on the edge, as long as my thigh was pressed tightly against his. The warmth split my attention throughout the meeting. Later, all I remembered was Jackson’s heat, his blue eyes, Lang’s gift of cowboyish bonhomie, and Will’s dourness.
But Jackson’s heat was foremost in my mind.
Maybe we were going to have a good time.
I hope so
, I thought, meeting his gaze.
His fingers lightly grazed my arm.
Dial it back, I told myself, plastering on a smile for the others at the table. Dial it back.
 
 
A week later I met the girls at Sammy’s. Jill arrived sans Ian, but looking healthier. I gazed at her expectantly and she said, “So, I’m eating better. I’m trying to change.”
“Good.”
“I took the job at Ian’s restaurant,” she added.
I was blown away. Trust my friends to always have more interesting stories than I did, even when mine were
good.
“What about the catering?”
“I’m still doing some jobs. But I needed a little more stability. Ian and I are working things out.”
“Meaning?”
“We’re not dating—but we’re not
not
dating.”
Which, in Jill-Ian speak, meant status quo.
Daphne arrived in a bright pink blouse and tight faded blue jeans. She said, scooting into her chair, “I’ve met a great guy.”
“An actor?” I asked. I’m sorry. I can’t help myself sometimes.
“An acting coach.” She dimpled. “He’s teaching me things I never knew.”
“Better than ‘Getting Able’?”
She sniffed. “Don’t talk to me about Kane. He couldn’t handle a relationship.”
“He couldn’t handle vaginal itching,” Jill pointed out.
“Oh, I don’t think that was it. He really has no time for anything but his work.”
Denial,
I thought. Maybe it’s how we all live.
CeeCee came last. Her hair was a tad longer; her once-pink tips now a virulent shade of orange. She said, “Yes, I’m sleeping with him. He’s young. He’s quick. He doesn’t ever say anything meaningful. I like that in a man.”
“A boy,” I corrected.
“He’s eighteen,” she reminded.
“How are things going with you, Blue?” Jill asked.
“Passable.” I waited a moment, savoring the spotlight. All three of my friends waited expectantly. “We’re starting the film next week. John Langdon’s starring.”
Daphne actually gasped aloud. Maybe they all did. “Mr. Famous Actor?”
“In the flesh. I have completed my mission,” I informed them all. Counting on my fingers, I stated with a flourish, “Nate, Charlie, Kane, Hairy Larry, Don the Devout, Black Mark, Knowles-It-All—yes, it’s true, I’ve dealt with Brad
ley
—and last but not least, John Langdon, Mr. Famous Actor.”
“And?” Jill asked, looking decidedly impressed.
“Are you cured?” CeeCee put in.
“Cured?”
“Of bad relationships,” Daphne stated impatiently.
“That’s the point, isn’t it?” Jill put in. “You seem about to swear off men forever.”
“Really?”
They all nodded in unison. The three of them acted as if they’d been talking this out behind my back. I could gain a serious complex. I swear, sometimes I think it’s a conspiracy: Fix Ginny Blue.
Why is it I think
they’re
the ones with the problems?
“Swear off men forever?” I repeated.
Jackson Wright’s face swam in front of my vision. My inner eyes focused on the curve of his lips, the strength of his jaw. His humor. His intelligence.
I knew I was going to sleep with him. It was in the stars.
I looked at my three friends and grinned like a devil.
“Nah.”
Please turn the page for an
exciting sneak peek at
Nancy Bush’s
CANDY APPLE RED
the first Jane Kelly mystery
Now available in paperback!
Chapter
1
I
f I’d known they were about to find a body at the bottom of Lake Chinook, I never would have gotten myself into the whole mess. The lake’s deep in places and the Lake Corporation only drains it every couple of years to check the sewer lines running along its muddy bottom. The thought of the little fishy things trolling the waters, chewing off teensy nibbles of human flesh, would have been enough for me to say, “
Hasta la vista
, baby” and I would have exerted great haste in making tracks.
But I didn’t know. And I also didn’t know my whole life was about to change. The day I spoke with
uber
-bitch/lawyer Marta Cornell I was blissfully ignorant of the events in store for me which was just as well. Don’t ever tell yourself you’re happy with the way things are because that’s when everything changes in seconds flat. And not necessarily for the better.
That particular morning—let’s call it “The Day Jane Kelly’s Life Changed, Not Necessarily For The Better”—I walked through the front door of the Coffee Nook, breathing hard from the two-and-a-half mile run from my bungalow. I had nothing more in mind than a cup of coffee and maybe a little conversation with friends. I slid onto my usual stool and Billy Leonard sat down next to me.
He said, “How ya doin’?”
I nodded. “Good.”
“Me, too.”
“Good.”
We both ordered basic black coffee. Billy, an ex-I.R.S. man and current C.P.A. whom I turn to for advice about my modest finances, seemed a bit preoccupied. I assumed it was over his kids. Billy has this theory about why there seems to be less ambition and direction among young people in general, and his boys in particular.
As I blew across the top of my cup, Billy said, “I’m a fisherman, y’know? I mean, I fish.” He pretended to cast out a line with an imaginary fishing pole.
Maybe I was wrong as Billy appeared to be heading onto a new topic. I carefully tested my drink. Steaming coffee. Sometimes the damn stuff is so hot it burns off the taste buds and a few layers of tongue underneath.
“When you’ve got a wild salmon, a Coho, on your line, it’s like
zziinnnggg!
” He cast again, this time with more body English.
I watched his invisible line grab an equally invisible Coho. Billy rocked and twisted and generally acted as if Moby Dick himself had swallowed the bait.
My eye traveled past him to a newcomer to the Nook, a woman I didn’t recognize. She was thin and small and her hair was completely wrapped in a virulent pink scarf. Wide, round sunglasses covered much of her face which was perched upon a long, white neck. She was a passable Audrey Hepburn. She stood to one side and pretended interest in the glass case of pastries, but I could tell her mind was on something else. I could swear she was playacting, pretending to be thinking over a purchase.
Billy continued, “I mean you
know
it, y’know? It’s fightin’ and fightin’ and you’re rockin’ and rollin’.” He twisted to and fro and nearly fell off his stool. “Those fish are tough. Really tough. But sometimes you cast out ...” He reeled in again. Actually reeled in. And for just a moment I almost forgot it was all illusion. Once more the imaginary line sailed toward the heads of the other customers whose blank oblivion said more about the hour of the morning than any disinterest in Billy’s story. “You get a bite and it’s kinda like ... ugh.” His shoulders drooped. He jiggled the line with a slack wrist. “He’s on, y’know? Grabbed it big time. But there’s just no
zzziinnnggg
.” He grimaced and nodded. “Hatchery fish.”
Julie, the Coffee Nook’s proprietress, asked “Audrey” what she would like. I realized with a jolt that Audrey seemed to be staring across the room at
me.
She saw that I noticed and quickly murmured something to Julie, then hurriedly walked out of the Nook. Julie shrugged.
I sipped my black coffee. It’s a shame, but I struggle with both caffeine and lactose. I’m determined to give up neither. If I ever have to give up alcohol I’ll start smoking or doing drugs or indulging in weird sex acts. If I can’t have a vice I just don’t want to live.
Billy continued, “They don’t quite have that survival instinct, y’know?” He sighed and wagged his head slowly, side to side. “Just can’t really make it out there. And that’s the problem with our kids. They’re hatchery fish.”
Aha ... he’d managed to pull the allegory back to his favorite subject. Billy’s boys were in college, taking a jumble of courses with no clear career path in sight. Most of their friends were in the same boat. I grimaced. Even though I hit the big 3-0 this year and consider myself long finished with higher education, I’m not convinced that I won’t be tossed in with these shiftless souls Billy seems to know so much about. My job situation alone might drop me into the loser bin.
“But they’ll—they’ll figure it out,” Billy added. He nodded jerkily as if to convince himself, then ran his hands through his hair, making it stand straight off his head. Billy always looks like he just woke up after a two-week bender. He’s so
not
the three-piece-suit type that his choice of profession almost awes me. But then, I’ve changed professions so many times that sometimes I think I should tack Misc. after my name. Jane Kelly, Misc.
I asked Julie, “Do you know who that woman was? The one dressed like Audrey Hepburn?”
She shook her head. “Never seen her before. She didn’t want anything.”
I decided to forget about her. If I started thinking people were watching me, I would become as paranoid as the rest of the world. I turned to Billy and said with conviction, “My brother’s a hatchery fish.”
“Booth?”
“Yep.” I hoped this deflection would take the light off me since I definitely preferred the idea of being a wild Coho to a hatchery fish.
Billy considered. “Booth’s all right.”
I snorted. My twin was a source of irritation to me. Path of least resistance, that was Booth. Christened Richard Booth Kelly, Junior after my shiftless, deadbeat father. Mom, in a moment of belated clarity, decided she couldn’t have her children be Dick and Jane and so Booth became Booth.
“Hey, the guy’s got a job,” Billy remarked.
Yes, Booth was part of the Portland Police Department. I, on the other hand, felt like a poser. I pointed out dampeningly, “The L.A.P.D. breathed a sigh of relief when he left.”
“Nah ...” Billy smiled and clapped me on the shoulder. He loves it when I’m grumpy.
My brother did choose a career path while I’ve seesawed around the whole issue for years. But Booth’s reasons are so wily that I can’t trust anything he does. During his stint in L.A. I’m sure he spent most of his time patrolling the area around the University of Southern California and hitting on the sorority chicks on 28th Street. I don’t think he ever got lucky, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. I suppose I should look on his following me out of So-Cal north to Portland, Oregon, as a move in the right direction, but with Booth, you just never know. This isn’t to say I don’t love him. Family is just a pain in the ass. Ask anyone.
Billy said, “You’re a process server, Jane.”
I just managed to keep myself from saying, “You call that a job?”
Billy shrugged. A friend of mine Dwayne Durbin, an “information specialist” (current buzzwords for private investigator) fervently believes I have all the earmarks of a top investigator, which means he thinks I’m a snoop. He wants me to hone these skills while learning the biz through him. The idea makes a certain amount of sense as I took criminology courses at a Southern California community college with just that thought in mind. Well, okay, there were other reasons, too—reasons that had everything to do with blindly following after a guy who had a serious interest in police work and whom I was nuts over and who subsequently dumped me. But regardless, I’ve done a fair amount of classroom training.
As I sat at the counter, I truly believed—at least in that moment—that I could become an information specialist. I had training and a mentor who would guide me into that world. Why not just go for it? I’d been resisting the full-on private investigator gig all the while I’d been in Portland. I’m not sure why. Self-preservation, I guess.
However, for the last six months I’d been working as general dogsbody to Dwayne who sometimes needs to be in two places at the same time. The fact that Dwayne thinks I have the makings of a first-class information specialist worries—and yes, flatters—me. Dwayne’s cute in that kind of slow-talkin’ cowboy way, but I’m not sure he’s really on the level sometimes. Half the time I get the feeling he’s putting me on. Sometimes he’s enough to make me want to rip out my hair, scream and stamp my feet. (I also have a problem with a name that begins with
Dw
. I mean ...
Dwayne, dwindle, dweeb
... None of those words conjure up an image of a guy I want to hook up with, even professionally.)
But between doing background checks for Dwayne and process serving for some of the people he knows—mainly landlords—I’ve kept my head above water financially speaking. I keep toying with the idea of selling the Venice four-unit I own with my mother, but that would mean dealing with her in close contact and I’ve already voiced my feelings on family. Mom lives in one of the upstairs units, and though I love her dearly she’s not exactly on my wavelength about a lot of things. Sometimes we struggle just getting through to each other. She’s talked about selling the units, but selling entails moving, and she’s dropped more than a few hints about making a move from So-Cal to Portland, and I’m damn sure I don’t want her to be the next member of my family to follow me north. Booth’s bad enough. I’m just not good with either of them. (I’m very self-aware, especially about my failings. Not that this has helped me much, but if pushed to the wall, I’ll pull it out as some kind of badge of honor.) I’ve reminded my mother of this fact many a time. She always looks at me half-puzzled, as if she can’t understand how she could have given birth to me. Luckily, she seems to feel the same way about Booth so I’ve never worried that he was her favorite.
“You were a bartender in Santa Monica, right?” Billy said on a note of discovery. “What was the name of that place?”
“Sting Ray’s. Ray being the owner.”
“My old man owned a bar. Did I tell you?”
I nodded. On numerous occasions. About as many times as I’ve told him I used to bartend. Neither Billy nor I worry that we recycle conversations. I also never have to worry that he’ll get pissy over my inherent lack of attentiveness. Hey, I was ADD before it was even popular.
“Evict anyone I know lately?” he asked, grinning.
“Probably.”
This was a long-standing joke between us. The scary part was that his question might one day become reality as Billy knew a wide, wide range of people around the greater Portland area.
He slid off the stool and turned toward the door. At the last moment he said, “Hey, I ran into Marta last night at Millennium Park. She wants you to do some work for her.”
“What kind of work?”
Billy shrugged. “Said she had a job that required tact. You any good at tact?”
“About as good as you are,” I said.
“You hear about that kid fell in the lake? He’s in a coma in the hospital.”
Billy’s good at shifting subjects faster than warp speed. I may be ADD but he takes the cake. “What happened?”
“Buncha kids screwing around in a boat.” He shrugged. “He fell somewhere and was trying to get back in the boat. Think it happened on the island.”
There is one island in Lake Chinook. Circling it is a footpath and guarding this footpath is a black chain-link fence. Enterprising teenagers make a habit of leaping the fence and racing the perimeter, trying to speed all the way around before the island’s Dobermans catch their scent.
“He was running around the island?”
“Probably. Mighta tried to jump in the boat from the island. There are a lot of big rocks around that one side. But kids are tough. Don’t know what his name is. Julie ... you know?”
“What?” Julie was deep into the whir of a latte, staring into a fat silver cylinder where foam lifted and fell in white waves.
“What the Coma Kid’s name is?”
She shook her head. “Everyone’s been talking about it this morning. I hope he’s okay.”
Billy nodded, then waved a good-bye as he headed out. I sent a silent wish that the Coma Kid would be all right. Hadn’t we all done something dangerous and stupid in our youth that might have killed us?
I drank some more coffee and my thoughts turned to Marta Cornell. She was the best and baddest divorce lawyer in the city of Portland and probably the entire state. Come to that, she could probably rival anyone in the region. Dwayne was her information specialist of choice, and I’d done a bit of work for her through him. Not pretty stuff. Divorces were messy and ugly and, personally, I’d rather be a process server and evict crack dealers armed with semiautomatic weapons than deal with one of Marta’s jobs. (This is a lie as guns generally worry me, but you get the idea.)
But Marta pays well. Dwayne says he’d put her first for money alone. This makes him sound mercenary and maybe he is a little, but you’d never be able to tell by his minuscule cabana off North Shore which makes my bungalow on West Bay look like a palace. Dwayne wants me to move my business to his cabana, but I fear for my independence and my soul. Not to mention I can’t see myself working cheek-to-jowl inside Dwayne’s living space. This is where the guy resides, after all, and Dwayne just doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy I want to get that close to. I have this sneaking suspicion I will turn into his cleaning woman/coffee maker/receptionist and God knows what else.
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